


Notes of a Reluctant Father Figure

by Fox_In_A_Box



Series: Harbinger Adventures [1]
Category: Parahumans Series - Wildbow
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crack, Gen, Humor, Not Ward Compliant, Post-Worm, Unconventional Families
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-15
Updated: 2019-11-15
Packaged: 2021-01-31 10:11:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21444529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fox_In_A_Box/pseuds/Fox_In_A_Box
Summary: After the events of Gold Morning, the Number Man discovers the joys of fatherhood....Sort of.
Series: Harbinger Adventures [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2071245
Comments: 24
Kudos: 49





	Notes of a Reluctant Father Figure

**Author's Note:**

> So, uh, I started this fic a while ago when the Harbingers hadn’t yet appeared in Ward, so it was still technically canon-compliant. Now not so much. I left it to collect dust in my fic folder until one day I woke up and thought “whatever, it’s crack anyway”, so I finished writing it and slapped a canon-divergent tag on it before posting. This is the result.

"I think he's dead."

"Does it mean we're free to go?"

"He's not dead, I can hear him breathing."

"How are you even--"

"Ssssh! He's waking up!"

Some say when you die you see your life flashing in front of you like a movie in fast-forwards. Some say you see your dead loved ones greeting you at the gates of Heaven. Others say you don't see absolutely anything because that's what death is - nothingness, for ever and ever.

No-one ever says you see five younger versions of yourself staring down at you with wide eyes. This is mostly why the Number Man knew he wasn't dead, in spite of his entire body trying to persuade him otherwise.  
  
  
  
The Number Man had never wanted a child. Or rather, the thought of having one had never occurred to him in the first place. Not even once in the course of nearly forty years.

Children were, as far as he was concerned, too irrational and chaotic. You couldn't reason with a child and that, along with the fact that most days he was too busy to even take care of himself, had been one of the main reasons why he had never wished for a son or daughter of his own. A cold shiver ran down his spine if he tried to imagine a toddler wreaking havoc among his neatly filed documents, disrupting the sanctuary of order and perfect organisation that was his office.

And it wasn't like he had had many examples of healthy, functional families to take inspiration from; he didn't know if it would have been worse to raise his hypothetical kids mirroring King's Slaughterhouse Nine or following the distinctive lack of morals he had observed in many members of Cauldron, most notably in himself.

His childhood dream of growing up to become a feared supervillain ruling the world by Jacob's side had changed somewhat after joining Cauldron. And while he had started to entertain the idea of retiring for good from the parahuman community someday, he couldn't say to be interested in settling down for a comfortable, average life with a beautiful wife, 2.5 children and a white picket fence. At any rate, kids had never been part of the equation.

But alas, fate works in strange and mysterious ways - if you believe in fate, that is. The Number Man didn't believe in fate, but he did believe in statistically improbable outcomes and it had taken him only one look towards the Harbinger clones who had just surrendered to him and Contessa to know that he had just been handed the metaphorical short end of the stick. Contessa had approached him, later that day, asking if he thought he was going to need some help. The offer had been tempting but, after seeing her shoot the other clones straight in the head, he had politely declined.

Which isn't to say he particularly cared for the wellbeing of his clones, no, he merely had the feeling that they would turn out to be useful in some way or another now that things had started to go south alarmingly fast, both for him, Cauldron as a whole and probably the rest of the universe. Still, looking after five identical copies of his younger self with extra sadistic tendencies (thank you, Bonesaw) sounded less like a sacrifice he would have to make to help save the world and more like a horrible nightmare turned reality.

Then there had been Gold Morning and all of a sudden death by Scion had started to sound very appealing, considering the alternative. But once again the rules of probability had demonstrated to have a pretty warped sense of humour, as not only had the Number Man survived the fight that had wiped out three quarters of the worldwide cape population, but so had his clones.

Once the Number Man had been able to bring a semblance of order in his new life, he had decided to do the only reasonable thing he could possibly do: observe, take notes, and hope for the best.

  
  
  
  


  
_September 12th, 201X: Set up a system of simple, basic rules for peaceful cohabitation. _

Five teenagers were lined up on the couch, all perfectly identical to one other, with various degrees of boredom painted on their faces. Considering who they were, it was a miracle the living room of the Number Man's new apartment hadn't already been destroyed or, at the very least, turned into the aftermath of a hurricane.

He didn't feel like pushing his luck, so he went on with his list.

"Rule number three: no fighting."

There was a small commotion, this time around, so he hurried to elaborate before any of them could protest: "No fighting civilians, no fighting other parahumans and _especially _no fighting among yourselves."

"But--"

"If," he cut Harbinger #3 off. "I ever was to catch you fighting or otherwise messing with civilians I will not hesitate to terminate you."

A snort came from one of the five teenagers - or possibly from the five of them at the same time (it was kind of hard to tell) so he added: "And if you're thinking I don't have it in me to kill a younger version of myself, I invite you to take some time to look inside of yourselves so that any doubts may disappear."

His last sentence was met with silence, the Harbingers exchanging quick glances as if looking for an immediate confirmation of his statement.

"This wraps it up. Any questions?"

Five hands shoot up at the same moment. The Number Man raised an eyebrow. "Questions that don't involve torture, murder or general mayhem?"

The five hands went down.

"Good."  
  


  
  
  


  
  
_October 24th, 201X: Went shopping for groceries with #2. Unexpected run-in with Bonesaw. Crisis ultimately averted._  
  
  
"And here's a discount coupon for you and your..." the cashier hesitated. The look on her face was the one of someone who only has a split second to decide between two options, only one of which won't lead to an embarrassing misunderstanding. "Son."

"Thank you," the Number Man said, summoning a polite smile that seemed to reassure at least a bit the woman behind the counter. He collected his grocery bags and walked out of the store to join Harbinger #2 in the parking lot.

The first weeks had been dedicated to careful observation and, eventually, to writing down useful notes on the behavioural patterns of the clones, in such a meticulous and precise fashion that would have made the Doctor proud - may she rest in peace. His extensive research had revealed that, out of the three, the Harbinger he had dubbed "Number Two" was the most mild-mannered of the group, and indeed the most likely to be influenced by his opinions. He hoped that showing enough favouritism towards him would send a message to the others.

The fact that he was deliberately grooming his younger self to become some sort of model citizen didn't disturb him as much as it should have. It was the practical solution to a simple problem: how to keep the Harbingers from destroying his apartment and maybe also his entire life in the process.

What he noticed as soon as he stepped through the sliding doors, however, turned his self-satisfied smile into a small frown. He wasn't alone.

"She claims to be my mother," the Harbinger said when he saw him approaching, an expression of mild disgust painted on his features.

His spite was directed at the girl who was currently grasping at the cuff of his white shirt and looking up at him with a huge grin on her face. The Number Man quickly identified her as Bonesaw.

"I _am _your mother, young man!" Bonesaw exclaimed, the words sounding rather odd when spoken in the shrill voice of a young girl. From an outside perspective, the entire scene would have looked funny - if not just plain weird, the Number Man supposed.

To him, however, the next couple of minutes would have made the difference between the freedom to enjoy his retirement relatively in peace and waking up the next day to the Wardens banging at his door demanding an explanation for the murder of one of their newest collaborators.

And he would have hated to be forced to move already, now that he had just ordered a nice print of Dalì's 'The Persistence of Memory' to add some colour to the living-room.

"Bonesaw," he said. "What are you doing here?"

The smile on the girl's face only grew wider when she noticed him.

"And what do we have here? The original, in the flesh! How did you like your clones? I personally think they're among my best creations, even more so considering that I had so little to work with personality-wise," a pause. "Don't tell the Wardens I said that."

In the meantime, Harbinger #2 had taken his chance to slip free from her hold, avoid her next attempt at closing the distance again with a half-turn and settle beside him. Out of the corner of his eye, the Number Man noticed the brief gleam of something _very sharp_ peeking out of his clone's shirtsleeve. Before the teen could protest, the Number Man handed him the two plastic bags and gently pushed him to the side, so that if he decided to use his weapon the angle would allow him catch it before the blade struck Bonesaw or, even worse, an oblivious passer-by.

Then, he shifted his attention back to Bonesaw. "You didn't answer my question."

"Isn't it obvious? I wanted to check on my children."

Harbinger sneered. "Bullshit."

"Language," the other two said in unison. The Number Man and Bonesaw exchanged a perplexed look, as if they were both annoyed of having enough things in common to be able to utter the exact same words at the exact same time.

"I'm sorry, old habits die hard," Bonesaw giggled. "Alright, alright, I might be on a super-secret mission on the Wardens' behalf. Just don't ask me the details, ok? But I'm glad you're taking care of them."

"It's not like I had much choice in the matter," the Number Man pointed out. "It was either that or let them roam free, causing havoc and destruction wherever they went."

"Well, if you ever get tired of them just call me up, I'm sure I can find a use for them."

The Number Man felt Harbinger tense beside him. "Thank you for the offer, but I think I'll decline."

"Aw, what a shame," Bonesaw said, letting out an exaggerated sigh. "Well, I'll be off now. Amy is waiting for me. It was a pleasure seeing you again, Harbinger, say hi to your brothers for me!"

The Number Man and Harbinger #2 watched her cross the street and promptly disappear behind a corner. Had he been the type to openly express his feelings, he would have let out a relieved sigh.

"She creeps me out," Harbinger admitted sometime later, looking out of the window as they drove slowly through the half-empty streets.

The Number Man chuckled. "If it makes you feel any better, you're not the only one."

"Can I kill her?"

"No."

The Harbinger put up an exaggerated pout, but didn't insist. The Number Man felt somewhat proud of himself.  
  
  


  
  


  
  


  
_March 2nd, 201X: Sorted out some paperwork with #1. Taught him the basics of accountancy and other tricks of the trade. He seemed really interested in the stock market._

"What are you doing?"

"Fixing some taxes for my clients."

"Can I help?"

The Number Man stopped writing, his pen hovering mid-air over the papers.

Living in close quarters with people like Jack Slash, Contessa and Alexandria had taught him that no-one ever does you a favour just for the sake of it . More likely, they are either setting you up for an unpleasant discovery a week in advance or are planning on using it as leverage to demand something in return in the near future. The only people who did favours for free tended to be naive and short sighted, something he was pretty sure he had never been, not even in his teenage years.

Which was why he couldn't help but cast a suspicious glance towards the Harbinger - Number One, he rectified in his head - that had just offered to lend him a hand with his work. His suspicions were all the more justified when he remembered clearly one of the clones describing accountancy as 'the most boring thing man has ever come up with after country music' while the others nodded in approval.

Sensing his concern, the Harbinger went on: "I thought I could learn something about your job."

Well, that was unexpected.

The Number Man would have lied if he had said he didn't feel flattered in the least that one of his clones had decided to pick up his legacy. He didn't remember getting interested in accounting or finance before his early twenties. Had he said or done something to speed up the process? Was the fact that at least one of the Harbingers was displaying some curiosity towards his job so early a sign of his positive influence on them?

After a quick evaluation of the pros and cons of indulging his younger self's request, he nodded and gestured to the empty seat on the other side of the desk.

"It's all a matter of careful investments. Now, normally people have to rely on chance and experience to guide their choices, but our power gives us some extra help when it comes to calculating the benefits of increasing or lowering the expenses on certain domains," he slid a document over to Harbinger #1. "In this case, for example, the problem is easily solved by decreasing the amount of money spent on advertisement by--"

"By forty-three point two percent," the teen said, after no more than a quick look at the paper.

The Number Man smiled. "Precisely."

There were some perks of living with genetically modified almost-perfect copies of yourself: you were always sure to have something nearby who could listen and understand you. Of course,_ they_ knew you too well too, and they were therefore able to obtain the maximum annoying effect with minimum effort, but that was beside the point. The point was, for the first time in months the Number Man was starting to feel like he had finally found a common ground between himself and the clones. For the first time since he had taken them home with him, he was starting to see a little bit of himself in the young face looking back at him expectantly from the other side of the desk.

Which isn't to say he would not regret his decision. Oh, he would.

To be more specific, he would regret it in the moment Harbinger #1 would put the knowledge he had gathered to good use and invest the fifty dollars he had given him to buy a new coat in a little-known Chilean real estate company. Fifty dollars that would earn him fifty-_hundred _dollars in return in the span of a few weeks, allowing him to finally put his hands on a set of three rocket launchers he and a couple of his brothers would have a lot of fun using on the elderly couple who lived on the other side of the street. The Number Man would later find him grinning beside his purchase as if showcasing his latest accomplishment. And he would be furious then. Somewhat proud, but furious.

For the time being they were just a man and his younger self, bonding over accountancy and mathematics.  
  
  


  
  
  


  
  
_March 30th, 201X: Contessa brought the escaped #3 back. A serious talk about manners is due._

Ever since they their reunion of sorts in the wake of Gold Morning, the Number Man had gotten used to seeing Contessa appear without a warning at his front door. She came and went as she pleased whenever she had matters of capital importance to discuss with him.

Most of the times, he suspected, she was making up non-existing issues just to have an acceptable excuse to spend some time with him without having to utter such terrible, shameful words such as 'I missed you', or some variation thereof. Not that he had anything to complain about it, really. If anything, he was always happy to let her in and offer her a cup of tea and a long chat.

Despite this, he wasn't able to hide his surprise when, one late evening, he answered the door to find her in the company of one of his clones. She was holding Harbinger #3 from the collar of his shirt and, no matter how hard he tried, it seemed impossible for him to get free from her hold.

"I thought you'd want him back," Contessa announced. "But I can always dispose of him myself, if you want me to. Just say the word."

The Number Man let a few seconds pass, just for the sake of seeing the teenager's defiant look change first into doubt and then into horror, before nodding and moving aside. Contessa released the Harbinger from her grip and he was quick to scurry inside, not without casting him a glance of pure resentment in the process.

"What did he do, this time?"

"Nothing too bad. I was ambushed by a group of Teacher's students on my way here and he appeared out of nowhere to help me take them down. I asked him if it was you who sent him and he did that evasive sideway glance before answering, the one you always do when you're hiding something. So I knew he was lying."

The Number Man frowned. It took him a couple of seconds to realise the implications behind his clone's seemingly unwarranted actions. It was simultaneously worse and better than he had anticipated and he found himself in the peculiar condition of not being able to decide if he was worried or relieved. Probably a bit of both.

"You know," Contessa went on. "I was surprised when you told me you wanted to keep them."

He adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose and sighed. "I feel responsible for them. And you should really not speak about the Harbingers as if they were some kind of pet."

"Don't tell me you've grown attached already."

Sometimes it was pretty difficult to tell whether she was joking or not. He judged it to be safe to offer her a smile. "No comment. Care to stay for dinner?"

Contessa hesitated, no doubt scouting the Path to see if she could afford a thirty-minutes diversion from whatever goal she was pursuing. After a quick glance to her watch, she seemed to come to a decision. "I'd like that, yes."

As he rummaged through the cupboards, the Number Man made a mental note to avoid breaching the subject further.

He had no intention of telling her, and he could only hope she hadn't already caught on. And that she wouldn't for some time, at least until he had had a talk with Harbinger #3 about the dangers of trying to hit on a woman two decades older than him - especially when said woman can put a bullet between your eyes without breaking a sweat.

  
  


  
  
  


  
_June 25th - June 26th, 201X: Clones entrusted to Dr. Jessica Yamada for a couple of days. _

"...And I think this covers it. I'll be gone for no more than thirty-eight hours. My number is on the fridge, so don't hesitate before calling me if anything happens," he paused, looking at the woman in front of him. "Are you sure you can handle it?"

"I clone-proofed the house while you were packing. No weapons or sharp objects lying around."

The Number Man nodded. He didn't have the heart to tell her that simply getting rid of anything with a cutting edge wouldn't have stopped the Harbingers from doing damage, if they wished to do so. They could cause plenty of destruction with blunt objects.

"I trust all of this will remain confidential," he went on.

"I'm bound by professional secrecy, Mr. Wynn. You have nothing to worry about."

Once again, the Number Man found himself biting his tongue to avoid making a hurried remark about how there was definitely a lot he needed to worry about, starting with the fact that he had never left the clones alone in the same space for more than a couple of hours and ending with Ms.Yamada's relationship with some of Cauldron's former test subjects.

"Yes," he agreed after some hesitation. "But I took the liberty of doing some researches and I know you've been working with some of our former...projects. Accepting a job from me would mean running into a possible conflict of interest regarding..."

He was interrupted by Ms. Yamada raising a hand, shushing him with a curt gesture. "I know everything about your past affiliations, Mr. Wynn. My policy has always been taking care of my patients regardless of their background. I'm not going to change it any time soon."

This time, the Number Man didn't reply. There was no arguing with that.

To her credit, Jessica Yamada looked rather relaxed for someone who was about to spend the next two days in close quarters with five of the most dangerous parahumans around. With her pen and clipboard at the ready, she looked like the incarnation of professionality. She must have been used to dealing with all kinds of problematic capes in her line of work, he supposed, but the Harbingers presented unique challenges. Unique as in a rather sadistic sense of humour and the tendency to mess with anyone who tried - and inevitably failed - to stand up to them.

One thing has to be said: he had been reluctant to drag a civilian into this.

The person whose help he had been hoping to enlist was Contessa. Turns out his former co-worker was _insanely_ good at disappearing when she didn't want to be found. Which had forced him to come up with a plan B. Plain B had been abandoned as soon as soon as he realised how ill-suited someone like a William Manton clone was to look after the Harbingers - Siberian or no Siberian. Plan C had started to form only after he had heard lots and lots of talk about an exceptionally good cape therapist who already had some experience in dealing with atypical parahumans.

When he had contacted her, she had immediately clarified that her job wasn't to babysit capes, but rather to analyse their issues and offer an insight on what could and could not improve their current situation. She could have, however, accepted his offer if he allowed her to conduct a few sessions of group therapy with the clones, something that could have given her a better idea of how to approach some of her new patients that shared a similar background. The Number Man had accepted the bargain without a second thought.

"I'll see you on Tuesday, then," he cast a brief glance behind her shoulder to see a couple of the Harbingers with his back turned to him, otherwise engaged with something he couldn't see. He decided to leave them be and returned his attention to the therapist. "Good luck."

She offered him a brief smile. "Have a good trip, Mr. Wynn."

He didn't like the look Harbinger #5 have him a moment before he thanked her one last time and turned his back to the door, feeling like he was saying goodbye to at last a third of his furniture. And to his reputation as a non-threatening rogue in the newly recovered cape community. And maybe to his chances of living a quiet, uneventful life where the biggest thrill would be seeing the value of the new Dollar drop by fifty percent then take off again in the same day.

But he was to attend the meeting that would have sealed his fate for the upcoming ten or so years, and bringing along the clones didn't seem like a good idea. The Harbingers had proved to be useful in a lot of tricky situations but, sadly, negotiating wasn't one of them. Especially not when he wanted to advertise himself as a former cape retiring from the field to take some time for himself, some time to ponder about his past mistakes and earn his amnesty by giving Earth Gimel's economic situation that little push it needed to start running. All from the comfort of his little flat, with no intention whatsoever of getting in anybody's way, thank you very much.

The two days that followed where the longest of his life. Not only because of the sheer effort he had to put into convincing the new powers that be that reviving Cauldron's old project was the last thing he wanted, but also because his cellphone remained silent for the entire duration. Not a message, not a single call. 'No news is good news' was an adage he had never really believed much in. No news could simply mean that whoever had to deliver them had encountered an untimely death before she had any chance to do so.

He had so much time to ponder about all the worst-case scenarios, that he wasn't prepared for what he found when, fingers clutched around his trusty handgun, pushed the door of his apartment open and stepped inside.

The clones were sitting in a perfect circle in the middle of the living-room. Among them, sitting on a kitchen chair and busy scribbling notes on a pad, was Ms. Yamada. All in one piece, and seemingly not emotionally scarred. The Number Man eased his grip on the weapon. Most surprising of all, they actually took turns for speaking, raising their hands and waiting for Ms. Yamada to give them the word instead of talking over each other in a cacophony of similar voices and opposing opinions. Something even he had some difficulty with, sometimes.

Five heads jolted up to look in his direction as soon as he closed the door behind him. At his gesture, they all scattered.

He approached the therapist. "Thank you, I mean it."

She shook her head, starting to gather her scant belongings in a small bag. "Nonsense. It's my job to lend a hand to people in need. Besides, it was an interesting experience. I think they would benefit from a few additional sessions, if you're okay with that."

"That can be arranged. But I still feel like I owe you a favour."

She looked up at him, then. "The only favour you could do me would be scheduling a couple of therapy sessions for yourself."

"You think it would be useful?"

Jessica Yamada gave him one look over, as if she was examining a most interesting species of animal. "Most certainly."

He didn't know how to take it, especially given the utter lack of hesitation before uttering these last two words. He had the unnerving certainty that she could look right through him and would have been able to make him spill even the most shameful memories from his past with just a couple of carefully worded questions.

"I'll think about it," he lied.

  
  
  
_July 17th, 201X: Unexpected visit from two members of Faultline's crew. No big damages to report. Note to self - get rid of the house alarm system. _

The Number Man blinked once. Then twice. The identical faces of #4 and #1 slowly came into focus in the half-darkness of his bedroom.

"We caught two trespassers!" #4 announced proudly as soon as he noticed that he was awake. The statement was reinforced by the smug grin on his twin's face.

As his brain struggled to kick into gear and elaborate what was going on, what his clones where talking about and why the hell had they thought waking him up at three in the morning would be a good idea, he pulled himself up to a sitting position. He rubbed his eyes and instinctively reached for his glasses on the nightstand.

"Trespassers?" He repeated. "What are you talking about?"

"Come on!" #1 urged him instead of answering, pulling on the sleeve of his T-shirt to coax him out of bed. With a sigh, the Number Man let himself be pulled and followed them through the short corridor until they reached the only room that somehow had all the lights still on. It didn't take him long to find out why.

The kitchen was crammed with people - Harbingers, mostly, armed with a variety of kitchen supplies and gathered around two other faces he hadn't seen in a very long time. An angry-looking Shamrock stood in the middle of the small crowd, unmasked, with her arms crossed to her chest. Beside her, a possibly angrier Newter kept shifting his eyes from one clone to the next, probably pondering on how to take them down without risking his own and his teammate's life in the process.

Maybe they hadn't realised it yet, but they had been incredibly lucky to survive the initial confrontation with the Harbingers. He didn't know if it had something to do with Shamrock's powers, or with the fact that the Harbingers had found them interesting enough to toy with them a little before delivering the killing blow. Either way, judging from the worried crease in the young woman's face, they were probably starting to understand the position they had unknowingly put themselves in.

To be fair, breaking into the house of a seemingly harmless parahuman accountant and suddenly finding yourself cornered by a small legion of clones tends to do that to people.

The remaining Harbingers, for their part, didn't seem to be concerned with keeping the intruders at bay as much as debating on what type of horrendously painful punishment they were going to inflict on them in retaliation for their offence.

"I say we rip off their fingernails!"

"Oh, oh, I know! What about we cut off their faces, then we let them go? So they'll be even more freakier than they already are."

"I don't know, the guy has already had enough in the disfigurement department. I'm all for the fingernails. Classic, painful, can be administered multiple times if you're patient enough for them to grow back and--"

"No one is going to rip anyone's fingernails off," the Number Man cut in. "Not under my watch."

Someone groaned and he caught #5 rolling his eyes. After having made sure the clones weren't going to try anything, as long as he kept an eye on them, he turned towards the unexpected trespassers. "Normally I would apologize for the harsh welcome, but I wasn't expecting visits."

Some of the Harbingers snickered, which only had the effect of putting the two intruders even more on edge.

"Tell us where she is and we'll let you be," Shamrock said.

The Number Man frowned. "She?"

"The other Boogeyman."

Ah. So that was the reason for their night-time visit. He should have seen it coming, really. A part of him was impressed by the fact that someone would willingly try to hunt down Contessa of all people, but he might have been underestimating the sheer power of years of resentment cultivated while locked up in a small cell in the basement of the Cauldron compound.

"I don't know where she is," he said.

It was one of those rare cases where the telling the truth was pretty much useless. He could have gone any length to explain how it was just like her not to tell anyone what she did and where she went - not even the only person she could claim to have maintained some sort of relationship with after the events of Gold Morning - but he was sure the two would have called him a liar nonetheless. He wondered about the faces they would have made if they had known she had dropped by just the day before to borrow a pair of gardening shears and a bottle of bleach, without sparing a word on what she was meaning to do with them.

True to form, Newter sneered at him. "As if."

"And even if I knew," the Number Man continued. "I would do you a much bigger favour not telling you."

"You wouldn't stand a chance against her, anyway," #3 quipped. His remark was immediately followed by a chorus of "Yeah, right!" from the other clones.

"I suppose there's nothing I can say to dissuade you from your revenge plan?" The Number Man asked.

"It's not revenge," Shamrock said. "Well, not _just_ revenge. We need information and she's the one who can give them to us. If we can get payback for the suffering she and the woman she used to work for put us through while we're at it, the better."

"As far as revenge goes, I'd be happy to settle for you," Newter added, eyeing the Number Man with the look of someone who couldn't wait to find out just what kind of horrific side-effects his hallucinogens would have on him.

He had hardly finished speaking, that the Harbingers moved in synch to stand between them and the Number Man, blocking out every single trajectory any of them could have used to get at him.

"Great," Newter huffed, taking a step back for good measure and almost crashing into Shamrock. "He trained his kids to protect him."

#1 made a face. "He's not our _dad_!"

Once again, the clone's statement was met with another chorus of approving remarks from his brothers.

The tension was about to snap. The Number Man could feel it in the way the Harbingers' stance shifted all around him. One inch here, three inches and a half there. If he wanted to avoid spending the night cleaning deviant blood off of his kitchen counter, he needed to find a compromise. He had always been good at compromise.

"I'll let you two go unharmed and maybe I'll even be willing to give you a hint as to where Contessa might be," he heard the Harbingers around him start to protest, so he held up a finger. Their disappointed chattering died out a bit. "In exchange, I must ask you you to give up your revenge on me and never come to this house again."

"What's in it for us?" Harbinger #5 interrupted him from somewhere at his left.

The Number Man shot him a glance. "If they ever come back, you'll be free to do whatever you want with them. I promise I won't get in the way. Can you be content with that?"

The clone considered it for a moment. #1 leaned forwards and whispered something in his ear. A faint "alright" came from the circle of clones surrounding him. Satisfied with their response, he returned his attention to the two intruders.

"As a token of my goodwill, I can give you a tip," he went on. "The woman Contessa and I were working for, Doctor Mother, is already dead. Karmic justice, you may call it. You and your friends can save yourselves the trouble of going after her. So, do we have a deal?"

Newter and Shamrock listened to his words in silence, then exchanged a look. They both nodded.

The Number Man smiled faintly. "A sensible choice."

  
  
  
  


  
  


  
_September 8th, 201X: Helped Contessa dispose of some old enemies. Harbingers exceptionally well behaved when left on their own devices. Note to self - don't get used to it. _

The sound of shuffling paper repeated over and over again. The Number Man closed his eyes, willing himself to ignore it. He knew what she was doing, she wasn't being particularly subtle about it. Oh, she had assured him that she wouldn't use her power on him unless strictly necessary, but the concept of 'strictly necessary' of someone who was used to influencing people's decisions on a daily basis was somewhat warped. And even if she had spoken the truth, there were still plenty of ways for her to mess with him even without running it through her power.

Defeated, he turned his head and shot her a look from over his shoulder. "Could you put that down?"

"It's an interesting read," Contessa insisted, yet she just shuffled through the remaining pages before setting the copy of 'Peaceful Parenting 101' aside. The Manton clone had thought it appropriate to give it to him as some sort of reunion gift and, for the life of him, the Number Man still couldn't tell if he had been serious or not.

Left with nothing else to occupy herself with, she got up from the couch and joined him by the window. On the porch outside, the five Harbingers were busy playing around with a small dog. They seemed to have found a harmless pastime, but he knew better than to let his guard down when they were all gathered in the same place.

"What happened to them, anyway?"

The Number Man didn't understand what Contessa was referring to, until he tried to adjust his glasses and almost poked himself in eye. Ah, right.

"Number Five stole them and hid them somewhere. The others aren't talking. Which wouldn't have been a huge problem if they hadn't made sure to move all the furniture overnight."

As to reinforce his statement, his left knee ached when he shifted position, reminding him how hard he had bumped it against a kitchen chair that had somehow found its way in the middle of the corridor. He didn't need his glasses to know that Contessa was looking at him with that funny little expression she wore whenever she was faced with something she didn't quite understand. It wasn't a common occurrence, which made said reaction all the more amusing.

He could almost see all the questions running through her mind, the most pressing of which turned out to be: "You can tell them apart?"

"Well," he said. "They do have some distinctive personality traits, as well as slightly different speech patterns. You kind of start to recognise them after you've spent some time with them."

"Mh," was all Contessa said.

Silence fell. The Harbingers kept chasing the small terrier around the porch, who yapped happily when one of them threw him something that looked very much like a human bone. Or it could have also been a long stick. It was hard to tell from the distance, though.

"So, are you going to tell me why you're here?"

She raised an eyebrow at the implied accusation. "What if I came just to say hi?"

The Number Man had to make an effort not to roll his eyes. "I have my reasons for being skeptical. You never come 'just to say hi'."

Too late did he realise how harsh his words must have sounded and found himself rushing to come up with an apology to put a patch on his insensitive attitude. Contessa, however, anticipated him.

"No, you're right," she admitted. "I wondered if you could lend me a couple of them. Just for a few hours."

It took him a moment to process what he had just heard. Contessa had never expressed much liking for the clones who, for their part, always tended to get unnecessarily excited around her, even more eager to demonstrate the extent of their powers if only to catch her attention. The only possible reason why she would suddenly turn up and ask him to _borrow _them for any length of time was all too obvious and it had nothing to do with the desire for some company during the long days spent working on whatever project she had set her mind to.

"You want them to fight for you," The Number Man surmised. "Who is it? Teacher?"

Contessa shrugged, not even bothering to confirm or deny his assumption. "I'm saying I could do with an additional pair of eyes. Maybe two. Especially when they can calculate the exact position of an opponent's vital organs."

He was about to retort with a remark on her utter lack of tact, treating the boys as if they were some kind of weapon, then he realised anything he could say along those lines would no doubt have her reiterating the 'you're going soft' discourse. It wouldn't be the first time she criticised his choice of leaving the cape scene entirely.

"And," she went on, before he could come up with something else to say. "They need an outlet. Think of them like dogs, they'll end up destroying your furniture if you don't exercise them."

"I never liked dogs."

"Tough luck," Contessa rebutted. "You can't keep them locked up in your apartment forever."

"Not forever," the Number Man said. "Just until they learn to behave."

"When was the last time they did something that had you worried? I'm talking serious damage," she paused. "Except for last week's stabbing."

"There was a stabbing?"

Contessa waved her hand dismissively. "Forget it. They're bored, Number Man! Who knows, maybe they'd even become more manageable if you let them vent out a bit, from time to time."

"I don't think it's a good idea."

"But?"

"But I can't force them to spend the rest of their lives with me," he agreed with a small sigh. "I need to think about it."

Contessa didn't seem bothered by his intention of putting off his final decision for a while.  
She was good with patience. She had waited thirty years to see through a plan she had started conceiving when she was nine. It was a fight he couldn't win, no matter how hard he tried. He would end up giving in, it wasn't a matter of if, but rather a matter of _when_. He only hoped the Harbingers would have learned some restraint, by then.

"You could never come to terms with the idea of retirement, could you?"

Contessa's mouth twisted into a small grimace, as if she had just remembered something very unpleasant. "I tried to. It didn't work."

The Number Man decided to leave it at that. What she did between one visit to his house and the next was none of his business, he was more than content with leaving her the benefit of keeping some secrets.

"Tell you what," he said. "I'll help you out myself, this time. Then we come back and we discuss your plans for the Harbingers."

Contessa rarely did something as distinctively human as smirking. It always came as a surprise when she did. "Deal."

The Number Man turned away from the window. He was already moving to fetch his old rifle, while simultaneously making an esteem of how many bullets he had left, when a hand landed on his shoulder.

"Hold on," Contessa said, producing something from the pocket of her jacket. "You'll need these."

That something turned out to be a black box she then handed to him. He wasn't too surprised when he discovered it contained a shiny new pair of glasses and was surprised even less when, after he had donned them, he noticed that they fit his prescription to a T. 

Number Five stumbled through the living-room, half-awake but alert enough to notice the Number Man sleeping on the couch in front of the TV and take the necessary steps to cross the room without waking him up. His late-night trip to the kitchen was a short one - just the time to estimate the optimal trajectory to have the family-size bag of chips resting on one of the top shelves fall right into his waiting arms. The plan went off without a hitch. With an armful of honey mustard chips, he could now make his way back to bed.

He was already halfway down the corridor, when something had him stopping in his tracks. A stray thought at the back of his brain urged him to go back. Five stared at the darkness in front of him trying to remember just what had subconsciously caught his attention.

He went back over his steps, let his eyes scan the room until he found it. A small leather-bound notebook lying on the floor. A quick assessment told him that the Number Man had most likely been reading it before drifting to sleep, letting it slip from his hands and tumble to the ground where it was now.

He hesitated, listening to the Number Man's steady breathing before he judged it safe to step closer and pick it up. He shuffled through it, lingering for a brief moment on this or that page to get the gist of what was inside. He had never thought of Number Man as a friend or, god forbid, a father figure. And yet, the more he read, the more he felt a strange feeling stir inside his chest. Like most Thinkers before him, Number Five wasn't particularly good with feelings. He couldn't put a name to it, but deep down he knew that seeing his and his brothers' daily life documented with meticulous care as if they were some sort of unorthodox experiment made him feel…

A sudden movement behind his back had him turning around, muscles tensed and ready to strike, only to find himself face to face with Number Two.

Five huffed in ill-concealed annoyance. The downside of sharing the same thought pattern with four other people; no way to hide your midnight snacks from the greedy hands of your twin brothers. True to form, a pleased smile appeared on Two's face as he noticed the unopened bag of chips tucked under one of his arms. His attention was soon swayed, though, as he went from staring at the snacks with hungry eyes to staring at the notebook with a puzzled expression.

Two arched an eyebrow at him, a wordless 'what is that?'.

"Something interesting," Five said.

Two seemed to ponder his answer for a while, then he shook his head and nodded back towards the dark corridor behind him. Five hesitated, the Number Man's notebook still in hand. Eventually, he settled for placing it back where he had found it and following Two back to the room they shared with the other Harbingers.


End file.
